


The Show Must Go On

by Pargoletta



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Backstage, Dancing, Gen, Singing, Theatre, rehearsal, showmanship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:51:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargoletta/pseuds/Pargoletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers struggled at boot camp to master physical discipline, learning to climb, crawl, run, shoot, and fight.  But the rigors of boot camp are nothing compared to his first post-serum assignment, in which he must learn to act, sing, and dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bonds Of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this story! I had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope that you’ll have as much fun reading it.
> 
> I have to admit, I have a very distinct fondness for the “Star Spangled Man” production number. It’s so woefully wrong in just about every particular that it manages to become glorious and wonderful in its wrongness. And yet, clearly, a great deal of thought and effort went into that stage show. A great deal of thought that, somehow, did not include reasoning out the likely result of taking a newly super-serumed Army recruit with no discernable performance talent whatsoever and making him the star of a professional song-and-dance number. We can see the ultimate result on screen, but how did the show manage to get to that point? 
> 
> Read on . . .

**1\. Bonds of Freedom**

 

Throughout his life, Steve Rogers estimated that he had experienced more than his fair share of humiliation. He’d been the shortest, sickliest kid in his class all through school, and one of the poorest as well, more than once showing up on the first day of school wearing secondhand clothes that turned out to have previously belonged to one of his classmates. He’d been beaten up in nearly all the alleys in his neighborhood, and a few in Manhattan and Queens, just for variety. He’d sat in his skivvies in recruitment office after recruitment office, only to be turned down in front of all the other fellows. And when he had finally made it into the Army, he’d been the laughingstock of basic training, scrambling to keep up with the rest of his squad while struggling to keep his helmet from sliding off of his head. Most recently, he’d returned from chasing down a HYDRA spy containing the last precious vial of Dr. Erskine’s serum with neither the spy nor the serum, only to face the disappointment of Colonel Phillips. Who, it seemed, had decided to punish Steve for his failures with what Steve just knew would be the greatest humiliation of them all. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked into the rehearsal studio.

“Are you Steve Rogers?” A slender man in shirtsleeves glanced from Steve to a clipboard that he held. Steve nodded, and stood at loose attention, not quite sure what else to do.

“Well, you’re on time, I’ll say that for you.” The man placed the clipboard on top of an old upright piano, and conferred briefly with a small group of men and women who sat in flimsy wooden chairs at the edge of the studio. Steve fixed his eyes straight ahead, suppressing his discomfort at finding himself in a room where one wall was made entirely of mirrors. He had never enjoyed looking at his scrawny chest and prominent shoulder blades in the mirror at home, and it was still strange to glance in a mirror now and see an Adonis looking back.

The man who had originally spoken to him picked up the clipboard again. “Relax, Rogers,” he said. “This isn’t the Army, and the last thing we want you to be is stiff as a board. I’m John McGee, and I’m producing this show. You’re the . . . super soldier?”

Steve nodded, and relaxed into parade rest. “Yes, sir. Colonel Phillips sent me.”

“Yes he did. You and a whole sheaf of notes for a new act that Senator Brandt wants us to put together in about six weeks, which is six weeks less than I’d like to have. So we’d better get started. Let’s see what you can do.”

“Sir?” Steve frowned.

McGee smiled. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ not that I wouldn’t appreciate it. No one else around here does. Why don’t you come to the center of the room here and show us your singing voice? Unless you’d rather dance a bit first.”

“I don’t know how to dance,” Steve admitted.

“We’ll take care of that. So you’ll sing for us. You know ‘God Bless America?’ That song that Kate Smith sings?”

“I know the chorus.” Steve’s mother had loved the song, one of the last ones she was able to hear before she died. Steve had sold the radio not long after her death.

“The chorus is all we need right now.” McGee nodded at the pianist. “Bill over there will give you four bars of intro, and then you just sing, nice and easy. King, you got anything to say before we start?”

One of the men in the chairs gave Steve an appraising look. “Start him off in G, Bill. Not too fast. Come to center and face us, Steve.”

Steve came to stand in the middle of the room, glad that he was no longer facing the wall of mirrors. He had no idea what to do with his hands, and folded them into loose fists, trying and failing to keep his fingers from twitching. His throat was dry and tight with nerves, and he wished that McGee would offer him a drink of water. Bill the pianist played the last phrase of “God Bless America,” and Steve began to sing. His voice sounded strange and thin in the large, empty studio, but he remembered all the words, and he didn’t think he had gone too badly off key with Bill’s piano to guide him.

When he finished, the group took notes on their clipboards. King whispered to McGee, and nodded at Steve, but gave no sign of what he thought about Steve’s singing. McGee glanced at one of the women, who shook her head. Then he turned to Steve.

“Thank you, Steve. We won’t try you at dancing right now, but you’ll be working with Miss Fisher here for that.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his clipboard and handed it to Steve. “Here’s a draft of one of the speeches we’re considering for you. Read that out for us, and make it stirring.”

Steve read through the text silently, and then raised his head and glanced at his audience. His stomach turned over, and he tried desperately to recall the commercials that he’d heard on the radio recently. “We’re not all made to be soldiers, but we can all do our part for the war effort. Series E Defense Bonds. Each one you buy is a chink in Adolf Hitler’s armor.”

The group looked thoughtful. A woman in a lavender shirtwaist dress gave a sigh. “Well, that text is going to need a bit of work,” she said.

 

 

Steve’s next stop was the costume room. He wandered through racks of gaudy, spangled outfits of satin and velvet, past rows of shoes, boxes of paste costume jewelry, and, oddly, a shelf of helmets. In the back of the room, he found a small sewing nook, where three girls bent industriously over sewing machines under the supervision of a woman who reminded Steve of his second-grade teacher. She stood up when he approached, and looked him up and down with an appraising glance. “Hello, I’m Margaret Hollahan, the wardrobe mistress. You can call me Madge, everyone else does. You must be Steve Rogers,” she said. “Star of the show.”

Steve’s blood turned to ice. “Star?”

She smiled. “That’s what they’ve told me. Final act of the show, a patriotic extravaganza to sell war bonds. We’re up to our necks in dresses for the chorus right now. What sizes do you take?”

Steve shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know.” He choked out a little laugh at how absurd that sounded. “I honestly don’t. I never really had much in the way of new clothes, and I’m twice whatever size I used to be.”

“Then we’ll just have to find out.” Madge whipped out a tape measure and prodded one of the girls working at the sewing machines. “Rose, take notes.” Rose looked up from her work and stared at Steve with enormous eyes.

Madge turned Steve this way and that, spanning and wrapping the tape around nearly every part of Steve’s body. He learned the circumference of his head, armpits, biceps, chest, waist, hips, and thighs, as well as the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms and legs and, embarrassingly, his inseam. Madge even measured his feet. When she finished, she hung the tape around her neck and nodded.

“That should be enough to go on, since they haven’t sent us the final costume design yet. Let me get you some things for rehearsal.” She searched through the shoe racks and selected two pairs of low-heeled oxfords, one with steel taps on the soles and one without. Steve shoved the plain pair under his arm as he examined the tap shoes. He’d seen plenty of tap dancing in the pictures, and, like everyone else, he had been thrilled and amazed at the flashing footwork and the crisp tapping that rattled out twice as fast as the feet moved. He could not imagine that he would ever be able to do anything like that.

Madge had moved on to a rickety bureau, and was searching through one of the lower drawers. “Aha,” she said. “This should be about your size. Don’t worry, everything in here is clean.” She held up a beige garment that was disturbingly smaller and skimpier than Steve’s Army-issued briefs.

“This is your dance belt. Make sure you put the wide part in front. I’ll see if I can find you another one, so you’ll have one to wash and one to wear, but in the meantime, make sure to wash that one out every day when you’re done with rehearsal.”

“I have to wear this at every rehearsal?”

Madge nodded. “Trust me, you’ll want the support. And it won’t show under your costume. Speaking of costumes, we have thirty skirts to sequin. I’ll see you again after they’ve come up with a final costume design for you. Where do you need to go next?”

“I’m working with King, I think?” McGee had written down a list, but it was in Steve’s pockets, and his hands were full with shoes and the dance belt.

“That’ll be Studio Three. Up the stairs and to your right.”

 

 

Steve hadn’t had much time to get an impression of King at their first meeting. Upon meeting him for the second time, in a much smaller room with only a piano and a few chairs, he decided that he liked the man. King was short and jolly and refused to tell Steve whether “King” was his first name, his last name, or just a nickname. “Everyone’s called me King since I was a young man,” he said, shaking Steve’s hand. “It’s just who I am.”

“Private Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.” He nodded to the accompanist seated at the piano. “Bill.”

King laughed. “Oh, none of that ‘Private’ business here. We all know you’re a soldier, and you’re only on loan to us. You’re a baritone, no surprise there. You can carry a tune well enough, which is a start. Want to have another crack at ‘God Bless America?’ Just the chorus, and I’ll let you look at the words.”

He put a piece of paper with the lyrics into Steve’s hands, and sat down in one of the chairs. After giving Steve a few moments to look through the words, King nodded to Bill. Bill played the same introduction as he had done earlier. In this small room, with just Bill and King listening, it was easier for Steve to sing, but he only managed one line before King told him to stop.

“Too high. Can we try it in F, Bill?”

Bill said nothing, but played the introduction again. It sounded warmer at the slightly lower pitch, and Steve found that it was much easier to sing this time around. King let him sing all the way to the end, and nodded. “Much better. We’ll do it in F from now on. Steve, do you know what the natural sound of the human being is?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cats meow. Dogs bark. Elephants trumpet. What’s the noise that a human being makes?”

“Is this a test?”

“No, it’s a lesson. What’s the noise that a human being makes?”

Steve frowned, thinking as hard as he could, but only one answer came to his mind. “We talk.”

“Wrong.” King smiled, and his eyes gleamed. “We learn to talk, and we talk all different languages. It’s not our natural noise. The natural human noise is the one that every baby in every language makes.”

“Crying.”

“A big cry. A big, uninhibited, full-throated cry. Like this.” King opened his mouth wide and let loose a long, pure wail that sounded almost like an air-raid siren. Steve jumped with the surprise of it and nearly ended up on his ass.

King laughed. “Sorry about scaring you. But that’s the noise. That’s the noise that you made before you learned to talk. I want to teach you to make it again. We’ll go from there, and we’ll get back to ‘God Bless America’ in plenty of time.”

Steve’s mouth went dry. “They want me to sing in the show.”

“That’s the idea. Now stand up straight, close your eyes, open your throat, and cry.”

Steve came to attention, screwed his eyes shut, and managed a short, high-pitched yelp. When he opened his eyes, King was frowning at him in a thoughtful way.

“Again. Don’t stand so stiff, take a deep breath, and hold the cry for as long as you can.”

This time, following King’s instructions, Steve managed a somewhat longer shout. King’s expression grew sharp, almost as if he were on the verge of discovering something.

“All right. This time, take a deep breath, and just hold it for the count of five, and then blow it out.”

Steve tried to swallow down the metallic taste of fear that rose in his mouth. Taking so many deep breaths all at once was just begging for an asthma attack. He hoped King would know what to do once he fell down wheezing and gasping in front of the piano. Maybe Bill would help. Steve glanced over his shoulder, but the accompanist just sat there, looking impassive. It would have to be King, then. Fixing his eyes on the man, Steve took the deepest breath he could and held it as King slowly counted down from five to one.

“And release.” King sat back with a smile, picked up a file folder, and leafed through it as Steve blew out his held breath and then tried to breathe normally again. “Well. This explains a little. Used to be asthmatic?”

Steve nodded. “Not any more. I don’t think.”

“Figures. First thing, looks like we’re going to have to teach you how to breathe again. Nice new lungs, and you have no idea how to use them. So. Stand up straight, shoulders down. You’re going to breathe right into your belly and you’ll be amazed at how much air you can take in.”

King rose and came to stand at Steve’s side. With just a glance of warning, he placed one hand on Steve’s belly and one hand on Steve’s back. “Take a deep breath,” he said. “Push my hands apart.”

And Steve took the deepest breath he had ever taken in his life.

 

 

By his next lesson, Steve was feeling lightheaded and more than a bit foolish. King assured him that the lightheadedness would pass, and that after a few more days of breathing exercises, he wouldn’t even get lightheaded any more. But Steve suspected that the embarrassment of having to be taught even something so simple as breathing would take a while longer to go away. He tried to remind himself that this was his assignment from his superior officers, and that it was, after all, part of the war effort. And he had managed to produce one good cry at the end of his lesson with King. That was something. But he suspected that it wasn’t quite enough to prevent his dispirited mood from showing on his face as he stepped into the acting studio.

“Long day, Rogers?”

The acting coach was another of the men he had seen at the evaluation earlier in the day. He was on the far side of middle age, and had glasses and a thin mustache. His eyes were sharp and piercing, and his face was serious. His bearing reminded Steve of Colonel Phillips, although the two men looked nothing alike, and Steve started to come to attention before he caught himself and remembered all the times today when he had been told not to do that.

“Sir,” he said. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Elias Cramer. Call me Eli. Looks like King’s worked you over but good.”

Steve nodded, but couldn’t muster the energy for a smile. “He said he was going to teach me how to breathe.”

“King’s a thorough chap,” Eli said. “With me, you’ll be learning the rest. How to stand, how to walk, how to be.”

Steve had not thought that it was possible for his mood to get any lower, but it appeared that he was mistaken. “Standing and walking . . . I think I get that. About learning it, I mean. But what do you mean about learning to be?”

Eli’s mustache twitched. “Good. There’s some intelligence in you, though I don’t think you really understand about standing and walking. But being . . . that’s the real heart of what I’m going to try to teach you. I assume that you have some idea of how to be Steve Rogers.”

“I think I do.” Steve glanced down at his body, still not quite used to how far away the floor was.

“But you don’t yet know how to be Captain America.” Steve’s shock must have shown on his face, because Eli snorted out something that was almost a laugh. “I know. It’s crude and obvious, but what do you expect from something that a Senator came up with?”

Steve was too tired to be polite. “Who’s Captain America?”

“What, they didn’t tell you?”

Steve shook his head. “Colonel Phillips said I’d be promoting war bonds.”

“Typical government. Look, you read comic books? Or the funnies?”

“Sure. Superman and Batman, I like those. Buck Rogers, in the newspaper. Little Orphan Annie has terrible storylines, but the art is interesting.”

Eli removed his glasses and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Good. Because the Senator, with all due respect to his office, has dreamed up a show straight off the old Orpheum Circuit. Acrobats, singers, illusionists, hell, I think he managed to dig up a fellow who still does performing dogs. I guess he thinks he’s doing old-fashioned family entertainment. Anyway, the headliner position is a big, splashy song-and-dance extravaganza featuring the heroic fighting character Captain America, who stands tall as an example of patriotic pride and courageous manhood, exhorting civilians to buy defense bonds and win the war. That’s you.”

Steve stared at Eli. After a moment, he realized that his mouth was hanging open and quickly shut it. “Oh my God,” he said.

“Exactly.” Eli replaced his glasses and ruffled his hands through his hair. He looked Steve up and down, just as if he were evaluating a cow or a car. “You’ve got the raw material, but that’s just the beginning. We’ve got six weeks to turn you into the living embodiment of the United States of America. Think you’re up to it? No, don’t answer that. Let’s begin.”

Eli’s lesson was easier than Steve had feared. Having already learned to stand at attention and parade rest and to march in formation in basic training, he realized that what Eli was trying to teach him was the stage equivalent. Instead of coming to attention, he learned how to stand in a straight yet neutral position, his shoulders relaxed, and his hands loose at his sides. After a short break, they moved from standing to walking. Eli made Steve imagine that he was being pulled forward by strings tied around various parts of his body, which he called “leading.”

Steve felt as though he had walked miles, back and forth diagonally across the acting studio. He tried leading with his nose, with his chin, with his chest, with his knees. At one point, Eli asked him to try leading with his heels, which confused Steve to the point where his feet got tangled up in themselves, and he stumbled into a chair. Eli dismissed the accident with a wave of his hand and a promise to teach Steve how to fall down the next day. Finally, they tried having Steve lead with his hips.

“Hmm,” Eli said. “Again. Go back, still from the hip.”

Steve crossed the room again, and then walked around the edge.

“How does that movement feel?” Eli asked.

“I like it.” It felt brash and swaggering, not at all like the way soldiers marched. Instead, walking this way made Steve think of Bucky escorting girls onto dance floors.

“It’s a good look for you,” Eli said. “Confident, heroic. Keep that, and work on it. Did Madge give you those shoes?” he asked, pointing to the small heap of Steve’s things in the corner.

Steve nodded. “One pair is for tap dancing, I think, but the other one isn’t.”

“Good. Wear the plain pair when you come to see me tomorrow. We’re going to have to knock off for the day pretty soon, since we’re supposed to be saving on electricity by not keeping the lights on in the evenings. Canteen’s in the basement, so you’ll go there for lunch. You got a place to stay?”

Steve rummaged in his pockets and came up with the address that Colonel Phillips had given him. It was on Pearl Street in lower Manhattan.

“Oh, yeah,” Eli said. “That’s the boarding house where we’re putting up some of the other performers. It’s a good place, and Mrs. Goff will give you breakfast. You’re on your own for supper. Any other questions before we have to go?”

Steve had lots of questions, starting with how he had managed to go from the scientifically advanced new hope for the United States Armed Forces to headlining a stage show, but there was only time for one, and it had to be the most pressing. “I have a lesson with Miss Fisher tomorrow morning at nine,” he said. “I think I have to wear that dance belt. Could you tell me how to put it on? I don’t think I’m brave enough to ask Miss Fisher.”

Eli laughed, loud and long, and then gave Steve a warm smile and his final lesson of the day.


	2. Clothes Make The Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Valmora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora) for her help designing the original Captain America costume! A creation that . . . special can rarely be the work of one lone person.

**2\. Clothes Make The Man**

 

 

Standing in the studio changing room the next morning, Steve was grimly glad that he had taken Eli Cramer’s advice to wear his dance belt only during rehearsal hours. He hadn’t even finished changing his clothes, and already he had gained a new respect for the dancers he’d seen in the musical pictures. The dance belt was unexpectedly tight around Steve’s waist, which was in itself a new sensation for someone who had struggled most of his life with secondhand clothes that hung on his formerly bony frame. It pushed delicate portions of his anatomy into odd and unaccustomed positions. Worst of all, within a few minutes of putting it on, it had wedged itself deeply into his ass, and refused to be pulled free. 

After a few minutes of frantic tugging, Steve decided that the dance belt was as adjusted as it was ever going to be. It looked smooth and centered enough in the mirror, at least. Steve pulled on the t-shirt and khaki shorts that his schedule instructed him to wear to his first dance lesson, and then glanced at his two pairs of shoes. The schedule had not told him whether to wear the tap shoes or not. Eventually, he decided on the plain pair, hoping that Miss Fisher would have mercy on him and not make him start tap dancing on his first full day. 

The walk down the hall to the dance studio with such a tight garment under his shorts was not the most graceful thing Steve had ever done. On the other hand, he had attempted basic training maneuvers designed for much taller men, so it was hardly the least graceful thing he had ever done, either. It took an act of will, but he was able to stand straight and enter the dance studio without waddling.

The studio was a large room, mirrored on one side. A piano stood in one corner, and beside it were a few flimsy wooden chairs and a sturdy table that held a record player in a wooden case. Miss Fisher stood beside it, sorting through a box of discs, but looked up when Steve entered. She was slim and graceful in a short practice dress and plain black shoes with a strap. She walked toward him and extended her hand, and Steve was relieved to hear no tapping from her shoes as she moved. 

“Hello, Steve,” she said. “I’m Ruby Fisher, and I’m in charge of choreographing both you and the chorus. We don’t have as much time as I’d like, so we’re going to keep your dancing down to a few relatively simple routines. I hope you won’t be too disappointed.” 

Steve barked out a short, nervous laugh. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m afraid you might be the one who’s disappointed. I really can’t dance at all.” 

“We’ll see about that. First, let’s warm you up a bit.” She indicated a railing that ran around three walls of the studio. “Go to the barre, hold it with your left hand, and face me.” 

Steve did as Miss Fisher instructed. She led him through a series of stretches and calisthenics. Some of them were similar to exercises in basic training, but some were entirely new movements. The dance belt made its presence known, but Steve had to admit that he was starting to see the point of it; nothing moved, even when Miss Fisher made him swing his legs as far as he could. Most of the exercises seemed to work only half the body at a time. After he completed each set of those, Miss Fisher made him turn around, hold the barre with his other hand, and do it again. 

“All right, that’s enough of that,” she said, clapping her hands. “Come to the middle, and we’ll try some beginning steps.” 

Steve plucked up his courage and left the barre. He reminded himself firmly of all the times that Bucky had invited girls to dance halls and he had stood on the sidelines. If this worked, he might be able to have fun the next time Bucky came home on leave.

“This is a nice box step,” Miss Fisher said. “Stand up, a bit loose. Good. Just like that. Now, follow me. Cross your right foot over your left. Bring your left leg back. And now bring your right leg back. And cross your left foot over your right. That’s it. Now, repeat that all together. Right cross, left back, right back, left cross.” 

Steve moved his feet, trying to imitate Miss Fisher. He thought he had worked out the pattern well enough, but he could not quite emulate the smooth grace of her movements. Miss Fisher waited until he had managed to get his feet moving methodically in the box step pattern, and then turned to watch him. She walked slowly all the way around Steve as he continued to box step. 

“Loosen your knees. You want a bit of give there. Don’t hold your shoulders so stiffly. All right, now, look up. Don’t look at your feet, look at me.” 

When she thought that he had absorbed enough of her instructions, she let him stop and stand in the middle of the floor while she went over to the record player and selected a record.

“Okay, Steve. In a minute, we’re going to set that box step to music. I’m going to play you a bit first, so you can hear the rhythm and the tempo, so just listen for now.” 

She started the record spinning and set the needle down carefully. The sound of the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra filled the studio. Miss Fisher let Steve listen for a few seconds, and then reset the needle. She demonstrated the box step again, counting the beats of the music as she did so. The music made the step much faster than their earlier practice. Miss Fisher stopped box stepping and lifted the needle again. 

“Now you try it. I’ll count you in. Knees soft, shoulders loose.” She lowered the needle. “Five, six, seven, eight!” 

Steve managed two complete box steps before the combination of speed, instructions to look up, and his own inexperience and nerves defeated him. Somewhere between a cross and a back step, he lost the rhythm. His feet tangled together, and, just as he had done the day before in King’s voice lesson, he ended up on the floor. Miss Fisher stopped the music and gave him a hand up.

“Are you okay?” 

“I think I bruised my dignity. But only a little.” 

Miss Fisher smiled. “All right. Shake it out, and we’ll try it again. This time, we’ll do the step together. Sometimes it’s easier to balance if you have a partner.” She went back and reset the record player. 

By the end of the dance lesson, Steve still couldn’t do a box step with ease, grace, and speed, although if he concentrated, he might manage two out of the three. He could also produce a stiff, shuffling two-step that felt as though it was designed to make his dance belt ride even higher than it already was. He was almost pathetically grateful when Miss Fisher told him that the lesson was over. 

“Go and change back into your regular clothes,” she said. “You won’t be dancing any more today. But come back here right away. I’m rehearsing the chorus next, and I’d like you to watch so that you can get to know the girls and see what it is that they’re going to do. You can bring a notebook if you want to take notes.” 

Steve hurried down the hallway, looking forward both to the chance to have pencil and paper in his hand and to the moment when he could free himself from the dance belt.

  

 

Ten minutes later, Steve returned to the dance studio only to find a crowd of pretty girls at the door. They chatted and giggled noisily with the easy camaraderie that Steve had seen and envied in women for as long as he could remember. He found himself retreating toward the wall without even thinking about it, just as he had always done in the presence of women in groups. Sternly, he reminded himself that he was no longer short and skinny, and that these women would probably not laugh in his face if he tried to talk to them. But his voice dried up in his throat anyway, and he stared resolutely at the floor. Following some cue that Steve did not notice, the chorus girls all filed into the dance studio, and Steve followed them. 

Miss Fisher looked almost as fresh as she had earlier, as if she had not spent the first class of the morning patiently helping Steve to unlock his knees and untangle his feet. The chorus girls all moved to take up positions at the barre and then fell silent, looking expectantly at Miss Fisher. 

“Welcome, ladies,” Miss Fisher said. “First thing, I’d like to introduce someone new. This is Steve Rogers, on loan to us from the Army. He’s going to be playing our Captain America, and I’ve invited him to attend your rehearsals so that you can get to know him and so that I can choreograph you all together. Steve, you come and sit down here.” 

The chorus girls all turned around and greeted Steve, flashing bright, friendly smiles at him. Blushing so hard that he was sure his face was actually glowing red, Steve made his way to the chair that Miss Fisher indicated. Miss Fisher waited until he sat down, and then clapped her hands. “All right, ladies!   Standard warm-up exercises.” 

She started the record player, and then talked the chorus through a series of exercises at the barre. Some of them were exercises that Steve had done earlier in the morning, but he could see that most of them were much more advanced than that. The girls stretched, dipped, turned, kicked, and stepped in almost perfect unison. Miss Fisher walked beside them, offering comments and corrections. After the barre, the girls spread out into neat rows in the middle of the room and began to practice more complicated steps. 

Steve watched them with rapt interest. He had seen plenty of chorus dancing at the pictures, but this was the first time he had ever seen chorus girls in real life, as well as his first glimpse at how the dancing in the pictures was created. It was also, he realized, his first introduction to some of the other people who would be performing with him. He couldn’t decide whether to be intimidated at being asked to share a stage with people who were so clearly good at what they did, or to be relieved that he wouldn’t be alone. 

Midway through the class, Miss Fisher allowed the dancers to take a short break. Most of them went to wipe down their sweaty faces and either pay a visit to the water fountain in the hall or fetch flasks. They chatted with each other, demonstrated small bits of steps, or fixed their hair. A few came over to Steve, with friendly smiles on their faces. A tall brunette introduced herself as Helen, and her friends as Dottie and Mildred. 

“So you’re going to be Captain America?” asked Helen. 

Steve put on what he hoped was a smile, but felt more like a grimace. “That’s what they’ve told me. Not much more than that, though.” 

“What’ll you be doing?” Dottie asked. 

“I don’t really know yet.” Steve shrugged. “They’ve started me on singing and acting and dancing, but I don’t think I’m very good at any of them.” 

Helen grinned. “Well, what are you good at?” 

“Drawing, mostly,” Steve said. “I had one year of art school at City College, but then things got tight, and I had to choose between rent and tuition.” 

He expected the girls to laugh, but they nodded sympathetically. “If I’d had the money for a few more classes, I might have been good enough to try out for the Rockettes,” Mildred said. 

“What do you draw?” Dottie asked. 

“I used to do odd jobs for advertising. And I just like to draw scenes that are interesting.” Steve pressed his lips together for a moment, wondering if he should mention the idea that came to his mind. “Would you mind if I sketch a little when you start dancing again? It’s so . . . intricate. I want to see if I can capture some of the movement.” 

The dancers did laugh then, but it was a friendly laugh. “Well, of course you can, hon,” Helen said. “It’ll be classy, having a real artist draw us dancing. Like that French painter, the one who painted dancers.” 

“Degas.” 

“That’s the one. They have some of his pictures at the Met. I go to look at them sometimes when I’m not working.” 

Steve smiled. “I’ve been a few times. When I could afford it.” 

“Well, that settles it,” Mildred said. “Let’s all go and look at paintings of French ballerinas on our next day off.” 

“And until then, we’ve got our very own artist right here,” Dottie added. 

Miss Fisher called the chorus back to order. They spent the second half of the class actually working on bits of routines. Steve lost himself in sketching graceful poses and high kicks, trying to capture the energy and precision of their movements with quick strokes of his pencil. He became so absorbed in his drawing that he was sorry when the class came to an end. He tucked his pencil and notepad into his jacket pocket, and was wondering what to do next when Mildred bounced over to him. 

“Come on, it’s lunchtime. Today’s chicken pot pie at the canteen. You have to sit with us and show us what you drew.” 

Dottie and Helen waved, and Steve went to join the chorus girls for lunch.

  

 

Steve’s days quickly fell into a routine no less disciplined than the army. In the mornings, he shimmied into his dance belt and worked with Miss Fisher, who was generous and patient with him despite the fact that he never seemed to learn very much beyond new ways to trip and fall down. He would stay on for the chorus rehearsal, which he mostly spent sketching the dancers unless Miss Fisher asked him to come and stand in the middle of a formation or walk in a line with the girls. Dottie explained during a break that they were still working out the choreography for a Captain America song and dance, so nothing was fixed yet. She also added that this was her favorite part of rehearsing, and that she wanted to become a choreographer one day, maybe after the war. Steve wished her luck. 

After the dancing mornings, he would eat lunch in the canteen with Dottie, Helen, and Mildred, and then came acting and singing lessons with Eli and King. He decided that he liked them both, although in very different ways. He was developing a genuine respect for Eli as an artist, certainly. As much as he had enjoyed going to the pictures, he had never really thought about how acting worked until he was in Eli’s studio, learning that he could start to feel like another person just by altering the way he moved. Steve also felt that Eli was someone he might ask for advice or wise counsel, but he wasn’t quite a friend. 

On the other hand, King really was friendly. Where Eli gave Steve directions about how to stand and walk, King used his hands to check Steve’s breathing, to make sure that his shoulders were loose, and that he was standing up straight. He made jokes and laughed at them, and seemed genuinely pleased even at the smallest of Steve’s accomplishments, such as learning to take a deep breath. King was also the one who explained that the show’s producers had commissioned an original song from “a few Tin Pan Alley punks,” and that they would start rehearsing it in earnest once it arrived. 

“Do I have to sing the whole thing?” Steve asked, unsure how he felt about the prospect. Crying and breathing and singing short melodies in front of King and Bill the accompanist was one thing, but the idea of a large audience paying to hear him didn’t sit well in Steve’s stomach. 

King shook his head. “Oh, no. It’ll be mostly for the chorus girls anyway. Why do you think they’re called chorus girls?” He laughed at his own joke, in that easy way that made Steve smile as well. After that, King let Steve sit in on one of the chorus’s singing rehearsals, and his respect for them increased as he watched them practice singing and dancing at the same time. 

During Steve’s second singing lesson, King discovered that Steve didn’t know how to read music. He promptly rearranged Steve’s schedule to allow half an hour to teach him. “This way is better, trust me,” he said. “When the Captain America song arrives, I’d much rather not have to take the time to teach it to you by ear. Besides, if you can read sheet music, you can take notes on it.” 

But more than the reading lessons, and even more than King’s joking and easy camaraderie, Steve enjoyed the singing lessons simply for the pure physical pleasure of taking deep breaths and being able to control the sound that came out of his mouth, learning to let go of the fear that he might squeak or start to cough or wheeze. “It feels like I really have a voice,” he said to King one day. 

King laughed and clapped his hands together. “Of course you do,” he said. “You always did. I’m just showing you how to make it heard.”

  

 

At the end of the first week, Steve received his first sobering reminder that he was not simply attending a stage school for the experience and the fun of spending time with King, Helen, Dottie, and Mildred. When he entered Eli’s studio for his acting lesson, Eli was waiting for him with a large box full of prop objects, hats, and masks, and a dour expression on his face. John McGee, the producer, was also there, holding a file folder. 

“We got the preliminary costume designs in,” he said. “Senator Brandt had them sent over this afternoon. It’s very exciting. Now that we’ve got Captain America’s look, we can really start pulling this show together. Want to see what you’ll be wearing?” He held the folder out to Steve. 

Steve took the folder and opened it. He took one look at the design, and felt as though he had taken a direct punch to the stomach. 

Captain America wore skin tights in red, white and blue. The shoulders of the outfit were blue, covered in white stars, with a much larger star directly in the middle of his chest. There were vertical red-and-white stripes from his chest down to his waist. His leggings were dark blue, and a red stripe ran down the side of each leg, and that red stripe had more white stars on it. Over the tights, he wore bright red briefs with a belt striped in blue and white sequins. There were ankle-high boots with wings on the heels, and large gauntlets with wings on the wrists. On his head, Captain America wore a sequined version of the Uncle Sam top hat, with extra red stripes on the crown. Worst of all, Captain America had a cape that was nothing more than a giant American flag attached to his shoulders. 

Steve stared at the image for a full minute, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Slowly, he became aware that Eli and McGee were looking at him expectantly. “It’s . . . this is the real design?” he choked out. 

“The Senator wanted it to be patriotic,” McGee said. 

Steve shook his head. “This is . . . well, patriotic isn’t quite the word I’d use.” 

McGee looked at him with an air of puzzled amusement. “Oh? And what word would you use, Private Rogers?” 

“I did illustration work before I joined up,” Steve said. “You want honesty or politeness?” 

“Honesty,” Eli said, before McGee could open his mouth. 

“This looks like an American flag got drunk and threw up in Times Square.” 

McGee blinked in shock, but Eli started to laugh. “What did I tell you?” he said to McGee. “You can’t put that boy on stage in that outfit.” 

“He’s Captain America,” McGee said. “He’s supposed to be out there dressed in the flag, stirring up the love of America in the audience’s hearts.” 

“By blinding them?” 

McGee narrowed his eyes and glared at Eli. “The Senator’s instructions, Cramer. I’ll have you know that he personally helped to design this costume.” 

“I’m not surprised.” Eli sighed. “Well, Steve, it looks like we’re going to be working with hats and capes today. John, if you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.” 

Fortunately, McGee knew how to take a dismissal with good grace. “Of course. Have to get the star ready for his turn. Eli. Steve.” He left the studio, taking the horrible costume design with him. 

Eli turned to Steve. “I know it’s small consolation,” he said, “but I agree with you completely about that costume. It’s terrible, and I’ll see what I can do about it, but you must understand that I have very little power in that area. Especially if a United States Senator is involved.” 

Steve managed to crack a little smile. “I take it you’re not overly fond of Congress?” 

“Congress does well enough at being Congress, I guess.” Eli gave a small huff. “I wouldn’t presume to write the laws of the land. In return, I wish that Congress would keep itself out of the business of producing theatrical entertainment. But enough of that. We need to get you working with a hat and a cape, at least for now.” 

He rummaged through the box and came up with a top hat and a long velvet cloak. Steve had to smile when he saw them. “Very old-fashioned. Like a gentleman going to the opera.” 

“Far better than the garbage you’ll be wearing in the show. Now put them on, and we’ll try that Captain America walk again.”

 


	3. Imperfect Capabilities

**3\. Imperfect Capabilities**

  

 

The horrible Captain America costume proved to be the herald of an even more horrible week. Nothing that Steve did seemed to go right. Miss Fisher tried to teach him how to do graceful spins that would make his cape swirl attractively around his body. When she did the spins, the chiffon scarf pinned to her shoulders did in fact fly out dramatically. When Steve attempted the same spin, he got dizzy, and his practice cape wrapped itself firmly around his arms. At one point, he tripped while practicing a routine with the chorus, and took Helen and Mildred down with him when he fell. They laughed it off, but Steve slunk into the corner, his face burning with shame. 

The song arrived, entitled “The Star-Spangled Man (With A Plan),” and King set Steve to work learning the words and the music together. He had two solo verses, which were easy enough to sing except for a bar of high notes that he couldn’t quite reach, no matter how much he tried to relax his throat. “Put your backside into it,” King suggested. Steve wondered privately if it might help to wear his dance belt to his singing lesson so that it could squeeze him just tight enough to help him squeak out his high notes. He was at least grateful that the solo verses were short, resembling commercial jingles more than full arias. 

“Well, that’s not such a surprise,” King said when Steve mentioned this to him. “The whole show isn’t much more than a long, fancy commercial for war bonds. Might as well be honest about it, don’t you think? Sure, the producers are playing this as the Follies or _One Man’s Family_ , but we’re really more like _The Carnation Contented Hour_.” 

Steve had to laugh at that, recalling more than one time that he had been sick, and Bucky had kept him amused by singing along and dancing outrageously to _The Carnation Contented Hour_ theme song. 

“Okay,” King said. “You got the idea. Let’s try that first little theme again. Remember, keep it light, keep the dotted rhythms precise, and really push those consonants. Bill, can you play from rehearsal letter C? Sing out, Steve.” 

Steve could just about follow the sheet music on the stand in front of him and managed to chime in at the right moment. “ _Each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun!_ ” 

The main problem with the song was that, in addition to singing his two solo verses, Steve also had to sing with the full chorus harmonizing in the background. He had heard singers do this countless times before, but he himself could not manage to hold his solo line against thirty other singers. He had trouble finding his notes, staying on key, and even being heard above the other voices. Each time that King made the whole group stop and start over again because of a mistake that Steve had made, Steve silently berated himself, ashamed that he was once again the weak link letting his squad down. 

Oddly enough, Steve found Eli’s increasingly acerbic commentary on his acting easier to bear than King’s steady optimism. Eli made no secret of his disdain for Steve’s song-and-dance number and his disgust at the spoken script, which the writers had still not managed to improve. In his own way, Eli managed to inspire Steve to keep trying to achieve the voice, cadence, and posture that might redeem the text, even if he failed in his attempts more than he succeeded. 

“Let’s salute our brave boys at the front, and buy the bonds to bring them home,” Eli recited. “Yes, it’s awful. It’s trite, the logic doesn’t follow, and it is, frankly, the next thing to insulting both the soldiers and the intelligence of their families. But that just means that you need to carry it. You need to tell the audience, without words, the kernel of truth that this dreadful sentence has obscured.” 

“Kind of a tall order,” Steve retorted. “I can’t figure out what I’m trying to sell, and I know what a war bond is.” 

Eli thought for a moment. “Forget war bonds for a moment. Put yourself in the audience’s position. What do they really want?” 

“To win the war?” 

Eli shook his head. “Hope. They want hope that their sons and brothers and husbands will come home to them. Can you find a way to give them that hope? Think about times when you’ve needed hope.” 

Dutifully, Steve did as he was told, but all he learned was just how many times his hopes had been crushed. He had hoped that his mother would be safe working in the hospital. He had hoped that he would be able to get an art degree from City College. He had hoped to be allowed to enlist in the army. And he had hoped to be sent overseas so that he could stand at Bucky’s side in the fight against the greatest bullies the world had ever seen. Finally, he settled on one dream that had come true, in its own way. He had hoped to be healthy one day, to be strong enough to do whatever he wanted. 

Steve arranged his strong, healthy body into Captain America’s upright, heroic posture. He took a deep breath, as King had taught him to do. “Let’s salute our brave boys at the front,” he said, and snapped off a crisp military salute. 

The salute reminded him of basic training, which reminded him of rejection and humiliation, which reminded him of seeing Bucky walking out the door, to be shipped off to an unknown future. “And buy the bonds to bring them home,” Steve finished. 

Eli sighed, and scrubbed his hand over his face. “If that was hope,” he said, “I’d hate to see what despair looks like inside your head.” 

At the moment, Steve thought, it looked a lot like the crushing disappointment that had haunted faces of everyone he had been working with for the past week.

  

 

The bright note in Steve’s dreadful week was Sunday, when Helen, Mildred, and Dottie insisted that he accompany them to the Met. As Mildred had wanted, they did spend more than a bit of time in the French Impressionists room examining paintings of ballet dancers at rehearsal. Helen and Dottie listened appreciatively as Steve told them how Degas had obtained special permission to attend the rehearsals that he had painted, and Mildred tried out a few of the steps and poses that Degas had portrayed in bronze sculptures. Steve took a new interest in the ballet paintings when he noticed that some of them were set in a rehearsal studio not unlike the ones he had inhabited recently, but some were set on a stage. 

Dottie nodded sagely when Steve mentioned this to her. “Oh, yes. That’s when we really start to put things together. I got a look at the schedule the other day, and we’re going to be at the Belmont in the mornings next week.” 

“The Belmont?” Steve choked out. The thought of having to go out onto an actual stage made something in his stomach squirm. Dottie seemed not to notice, though. 

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “It ain’t grand, and it’s mostly a picture house these days anyway, but it’s a start. We’ll go to nicer places once we’re on tour.” 

Steve swallowed back his apprehension at hearing the words “on tour.” Instead, he pulled out paper and pencil, and offered to sketch his friends posing with Degas’s bronzes. He let them flip through his pad over lunch in the museum cafeteria and allowed himself to be cheered up a little at their cries of delight. 

“You really can draw,” Mildred said. “Look at this one of us doing those high kicks. You can tell who’s who!” 

Dottie pointed to one dancer in the sketch. “That one’s Annie. With the ponytail.” 

“He should be designing the show,” Mildred said, and Steve couldn’t quite suppress a twinge of guilt for knocking her down in rehearsal. 

Helen was most impressed with a sketch that Steve had made mostly for his own reference, showing the pattern of the opening dance as it would appear from above. “Just like those Busby Berkeley numbers,” she said. 

“I guess it makes sense,” Mildred replied. “Steve being in the army and all. Busby Berkeley was a soldier, too, in the last war. I heard someone say that he learned how to choreograph from watching soldiers march. You think that could be true, Steve?” 

Steve shrugged. “Maybe. Watching Miss Fisher teach you, she’s kind of like a drill sergeant.” 

He hadn’t considered the similarities very much, having spent most of his time with the chorus just trying to keep up with them. But, now that Helen and Mildred had mentioned it, Steve could see the resemblance. Drill was the one part of basic training where he had been as good as his squad-mates. Maybe he could learn to step along with the chorus dancers as well. 

On the way back to the boarding house, the dancers chattered enthusiastically about their outing. Helen asked Steve if she could have his sketch of the chorus practicing their kicks to decorate her room. Flattered, he tore the sheet out of the pad and gave it to her, and then, because he had to be fair, gave sketches to Dottie and Mildred as well.

  

 

As Dottie had predicted, Monday morning’s rehearsal took place at the Belmont. The theater was small and had clearly seen better days, but the stage was still bigger than even the large dance studio. At first, the dance rehearsal was interesting, because Steve could see it all spread out at the scale that Miss Fisher wanted. Sitting in the house sketching while the chorus rehearsed the opening number, Steve realized just how much chorus dancing had in common with drill. The steps were harder, of course; Steve was still apt to trip over his own feet, and he had no idea how the girls managed to kick their legs as high as they did. But he felt that he had a much better idea of what the formations were supposed to look like, if he could manage to dance them properly. 

Steve’s singing and acting also changed once he stepped onto the stage for the first time. In addition to discovering that he could grasp dance formation, he also discovered stage fright. Singing for King and Bill in the tiny music room or trying to convince Eli to spend money on war bonds was one thing. But standing in front of footlights and seeing the vast dim void waiting for his voice to fill it made something inside Steve curl up and freeze. He found singing on the stage less terrifying than acting, if only because he had to concentrate harder to remember both the words and the tune. But one moment of panic could cause either or both to fly out of his head entirely, and Steve was sure that King was going to go hoarse from all the times he hollered “Sing out, Steve!” from the back of the house. 

Back at the studio, Eli had a new challenge for Steve as well. When Steve arrived for his acting lesson, another man was stretching in the studio and chatting with Eli. For a moment, Steve was convinced that he had been replaced as Captain America. He was still trying to decide whether he should be ashamed or relieved at that when Eli waved him over. 

“Steve, let me introduce you to Charlie Rudnik.” 

Charlie stuck out his hand. “Hello, Steve. I’ve heard quite a bit about you. I’m going to be playing Adolf Hitler.” 

“Adolf Hitler?” Steve’s uncertain smile froze on his face. 

“The senator wanted a new twist in the act,” Eli said, letting his eyebrows convey just what he thought of the new twist. “In addition to singing and dancing and being generally inspirational, Captain America is going to punch Hitler in the jaw. After allowing Hitler to sneak up on him, of course.” 

Charlie laughed. “Aw, Eli, the kids’ll love it! You know they will.” He turned to Steve. “Don’t let Eli bother you. He’s just still bitter about being understudy for Frank Gillman’s Hamlet back in 1928.” 

“Because you won’t let me forget,” Eli retorted, but there was a smile on his face. “At any rate, Steve, our task today is to teach you to punch Charlie here without actually messing up the face that narrowly lost out to Leslie Howard for _Romeo and Juliet_.” 

“Right in the kisser,” Charlie added. 

“Ready to go?” Eli asked. 

Steve wished with all his heart that he were anywhere else but in the acting studio trying to learn yet another trick he didn’t want to perform. But, as Colonel Phillips had impressed upon him, orders were orders. “Ready to go, sir.” 

“All right.” Eli motioned to Charlie, who moved to stand in front of him. “I’m going to demonstrate what your punch is going to look like. Just watch for now.” He turned to Charlie. “Right-hand roundhouse, okay?” 

Charlie looked Eli in the eye and nodded. “Hit me.” 

And Eli did. He wound up and hurled his fist across Charlie’s jaw with a thump, and Charlie went flying backwards across the room. It was exactly the same punch that Steve had been trying to throw in alleys all across Brooklyn for years with little success. After a moment, Charlie got up and walked back to his previous position, as unharmed as most of the larger boys that Steve had fought in his life. 

“That’s what you’re going to do,” Eli said. “You throw the punch, and Charlie’s going to react. He’s going to sell it. Your job is to keep it safe. Got that? The first thing you do is find your distance.” 

Together Eli and Charlie showed Steve how to stand close enough that his punch would look good, but far enough away to give him good swinging room. Their method involved Steve standing on one leg and leaning forward, a position that caused him to lose his balance more than once, but Eli had nothing to say about that, merely looking thoughtful. 

“Good,” Eli said, after Steve managed not to fall over. “Now, you’re going to take your swing and slap your chest at the same time for the sound. Keep eye contact with Charlie the whole time.” 

Steve’s fist whistled through empty air, and Charlie flung himself backwards. 

Eli nodded. “Okay, you’ve got the idea. Smoother, this time. One fluid motion.” 

Steve punched the air again, and lost his balance. Both he and Charlie crashed to the ground. 

“Keep control,” Eli said. “Pilot your fist, don’t throw it away from you.” 

Steve threw punch after punch, each one slightly imperfect in its own way, to the point where he began to feel that he had a better record in real back-alley fights. Charlie remained relentlessly cheerful, falling down and getting up again with graceful, athletic ease. 

“One more time, Steve,” Eli told him. “This isn’t Charlie Rudnik, supporting star of stage and screen; this is Adolf Hitler, the man who wants the entire world to speak German. And you’re not Steve Rogers, star of glorified propaganda farces; you’re Captain America, heroic symbol of national strength and pride. Go!” 

Frustrated, willing himself to do something right after all this time, Steve assumed his Captain America pose, imagined Hitler’s face over Charlie’s, pulled back his shoulder and swung. With a crack that was entirely unlike the slap of a hand on a chest, Steve’s fist connected with Charlie’s jaw, and Charlie flopped to the ground without a glimmer of his usual grace. Steve stumbled forward from the force of it, and caught himself against the studio wall, shocked, his knuckles stinging. 

“Stop!” Eli cried, and seized Steve’s shoulders, hauling him up to stand trembling in the neutral pose he had taught Steve on their first day. “Stay there. Charlie, are you all right?” 

“Fine.” Charlie pulled himself to his feet, and stood and worked his jaw for a few seconds. “Kid packs a wallop.” 

Steve’s stomach rolled over, and a metallic taste flooded his mouth as he realized how lucky he was that Charlie seemed not to be seriously hurt. “I am so sorry,” he choked out. “Charlie, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. I tried not to. I am so sorry.” 

Charlie looked at him for a moment, and then threw back his head and laughed from deep in his belly. “You think that’s the first time I’ve been hit in a stage fight with a beginning actor? Don’t worry about it, kid. You’ll get it. I’ll help you. Where did you learn to punch like that, anyway?” 

Steve tried to return the smile. “Brooklyn. I used to get in a lot of fights with bullies.” 

“Brooklyn?” Charlie said. “Well, that explains it. I grew up on the South Side of Chicago, and it takes more than a little tap on the jaw from some Brooklyn boy to put ol’ Charlie Rudnik down for the count.” He shook Steve’s hand. 

Standing between Steve and Charlie, Eli relaxed. “All right, if we’re all friends again,” he said. “Lesson’s over for today. Steve, go see the nurse in the third floor office to make sure your hand is okay. Go take a walk and cool off, and then go home. Tomorrow morning, I want to see you at the theater half an hour early, and we’re going to work on this punch some more. You can be as dangerous as you want on the battlefield, but not on the stage.” 

“Yes, sir.” Steve nodded to Eli and then to Charlie, and left the studio.

  

 

Two days later, Steve was convinced that the war bonds show would never make it to opening night. Senator Brandt had decided to come and sit in on a rehearsal, to see how his pet project was coming along. That was the day that everything seemed to go terribly wrong. At the end of the day, Steve took cold consolation in knowing that he had not been the only one to screw up. 

As rehearsals had progressed, a few of the variety acts had appeared, but none stayed for more than a day or so. The Great Zambini, Master Of Powers From The Beyond, Who Brings Dreams To Life, and who introduced himself to Steve as Eddie Smead of Valdosta, Georgia, explained that the variety performers could only afford a day or so to get to know the theater in between their scheduled paying gigs. Today, the variety act on the rehearsal schedule was Dr. J. B. Dogget And His Pedigreed Pooches, Pre-eminent Performers of Patriotic Precision Promenades. The Pedigreed Pooches were a big hit with the chorus dancers, but Miss Fisher spent some time sneezing and wiping at her watering eyes. Eventually, Dr. J. B. Dogget removed the Pooches, but not before one had lifted its leg against the proscenium. 

After Miss Fisher had recovered, McGee called the entire cast out onto the stage to rehearse the finale. With the benefit of a few special rehearsals and private practices with Eli and Charlie, Steve managed not to deck Charlie for real when he burst through the line of chorus dancers as Hitler. That was the only part of the finale that went as planned. Annie stepped on Steve’s practice cape, bringing a marching sequence to a premature end as they both fell down. The orchestra could not manage to keep their instruments in tune, and the chorus ended up singing in different keys. Steve sang his first solo passably well, but just as he started his second, a stagehand lost control of a curtain, raising a cloud of dust. Steve breathed in just enough to send him to his knees coughing so hard that he feared that his asthma had returned. And the writers had made so many changes to the spoken script that Steve forgot several of his speeches entirely, so that Captain America strode across the stage looking noble but spouting a jumbled combination of blandly patriotic statements from several different iterations of the script. 

The finale limped to an end, and Senator Brandt watched the whole fiasco in stony silence. Steve avoided as much eye contact as he could when McGee dismissed the act and called for the stagehands to rehearse the transition from the lighting for the Pedigreed Pooches to the setup for the acrobatic act that would follow. After the technicians had left, the chorus took the stage to rehearse the opening song and dance. Steve had no part in this number, so he took a seat in the house to watch. 

Helen and Dottie and Mildred had told him quite a bit about the opening number. Steve had only seen a little bit of it, since they usually rehearsed it while he was working with Eli, but he knew that it had not been going well. The choreography was much more complicated than in the finale, and the dancers had found the routines difficult to learn and even more difficult to perform precisely. On good days, the dancers would leave the rehearsal studio laughing about how they almost had it, that they’d figure out the spiral formation next time for sure, and Steve would poke his head in to find Helen practicing a bit of footwork, or Dottie, who was an excellent acrobat, coaching one or two of the other girls in one-handed cartwheels or aerial flips. 

However, like everything else, today was not a good day for the opening number. The chorus dancers were professionals, so they never stumbled or tripped as obviously as Steve did. But even if Steve could only barely keep up with a drastically simplified dance routine, he was observant, and he had learned to see the mistakes that the dancers did make. He saw ragged kick lines, mistimed acrobatic tricks, and formations that never quite seemed to flow in time with the music. It was clear that Miss Fisher and the dancers were becoming more and more frustrated, and Steve winced a little in sympathy. 

Miss Fisher started the dancers midway through the routine, so that they could practice a serpentine, shimmying figure that would resolve itself into a perfect straight line of flashing smiles and high kicks. No matter how much Miss Fisher coached them, the dancers could not manage to get into their line in time to spin around in unison and start kicking. Every time they tried it, three or four dancers at the end would mistime the cue or cut corners trying to catch up. As the smiles grew more and more strained, Steve found himself twitching. He could see in his mind’s eye exactly how the formation ought to look, and he knew just enough about dancing to see that the dancers were never going to get it right unless something in the choreography changed, but he could not figure out what that change might be. Without even thinking about it, he moved his hands, as if he could sketch the correct choreography in the air. 

From the middle of the line, where the taller girls danced, Helen caught Steve’s eye. Something in her expression changed. When Miss Fisher stopped the dancers after the final three had fallen out of time again, Helen broke loose from the line and trotted to Miss Fisher’s side. They spoke too quietly for anyone in the house to hear, but after a moment, Miss Fisher nodded. “All right, Helen,” she said. “Go get it, but be quick. We haven’t got all day.” 

Helen sprinted off the stage, and returned with a sheet of notebook paper in her hand. She and Miss Fisher conferred for a few moments, occasionally glancing at Steve. Finally, Miss Fisher nodded. 

“Go back to place, Helen,” she said. When Helen was back in line, Miss Fisher clapped her hands for attention.

“All right, ladies,” she said. “We’re going to make another change. Instead of all coming into line at once, I want you to curve in, one by one, nice and smooth. Slot into place and turn your traveling steps into marching in place. That’ll flow into the kicks on beats three and four of the next phrase. Got it? Let’s try.” 

The dancers got themselves into the position, and Miss Fisher hurried to the edge of the stage. “Five, six, seven, eight!” The orchestra struck up, and the chorus danced through its serpentine. With the slight change, the choreography finally worked. Where the line had been sharp, jerky and ragged before, it flowed as smoothly and mysteriously as the Jacob’s ladder toys that Bucky’s sisters loved to play with. Even as Steve smiled and applauded, he heard rustling and sharp murmurs behind him. He twisted in his seat and saw Senator Brandt and his aide making their way out of the theater with dour expressions on their faces. 

The rehearsal continued for several more hours. Finally, after a long day of more errors than triumphs, the day came to an end. McGee gave a long list of performance notes, a few of them not aimed at Steve, and dismissed the performers for the day. Exhausted, Steve could only muster tiny half-smiles for his friends as he plodded to his dressing room, where he could unhook his cape, and peel off his tights and dance belt. On his way out of the theater, he checked the bulletin board for messages, as all the performers did. A folded piece of crumpled and smoothed notebook paper with his name on it was pinned in one corner. 

It was the bird’s-eye-view sketch of the chorus that he had given to Helen a week ago. In the lower corner, carefully placed so as not to obscure the drawing, was a brief note. 

_Steve,  
_

_Please meet me, King, and Eli Cramer at the Automat on Broadway during the lunch break tomorrow. Bring a notebook and pencil, and do not tell anyone else.  
_

_Ruby Fisher_

Steve could only hope that, in the theater world, one did not bring a notebook and pencil to a meeting at which one would be fired for poor performance.


	4. Put Forth Your Strength

**4\. Put Forth Your Strength**

  

 

Rehearsal the next morning went as smoothly as if the previous day had not happened. Steve noticed that his parts of the show were not rehearsed nearly as much as the day before, and he could not decide whether to be relieved or nervous. He spent most of the morning in the house, either sketching or enjoying the acrobatic troupe and the singer who had come to rehearse their acts that day. 

“Watch how she uses her diaphragm to support her sound,” King told Steve while the singer was rehearsing. “See how relaxed and soft her shoulders are.” He had very little else to say to Steve, merely running him through his solo verses a few times and encouraging him to sing out. 

During the morning break, Steve and his friends chatted about the flimsy tights that the dancers wore, the Dodgers’ prospects, as well as some rumors that Dottie had heard about a professional girls’ league possibly being formed in the Midwest, and the latest developments in the Buck Rogers storyline. Steve wished that he could ask the dancers what they thought about his lunch meeting, but he contented himself with speculating about when Buck Rogers and Wilma Deering would discover Killer Kane’s latest attempts to betray them to the Martians. 

When McGee dismissed the cast for lunch, Steve hurried to the Automat at a gentle trot, unable to confine himself to a walk. Miss Fisher, King, and Eli had managed to arrive before he did, and King gave him a quarter to change at the till. “Lunch is on us, Steve,” he said with a friendly smile. 

King didn’t look like he was about to fire Steve on the spot, so Steve allowed himself to relax a little. He bought a vegetable plate, a dinner roll, and a cup of coffee, and carried his food over to the table where the others were waiting, in the middle of the crowded restaurant. 

“Don’t worry, Steve,” Miss Fisher said. “You’re not in trouble.” 

Steve let out a great sigh of relief, picked up his coffee, and had to put it down again immediately because his hands were shaking. 

Eli laughed. “Oh, dear,” he said. “You were really worried there, weren’t you?” 

“Yeah. Rehearsal yesterday was so hard, and then I didn’t know what to think.” Steve gave a sheepish smile, and managed to eat a bite of creamed corn. 

“Bad rehearsals happen all the time,” Miss Fisher told him. “It was just our luck that we had one while the senator was watching. You’re doing remarkably well, and you really aren’t in trouble.” 

“We might be, though,” King said, with a twinkle in his eye.

Steve froze, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Why?” 

Eli leaned closer in. “This is why we asked you to meet us here,” he said. “The Automat gets so crowded that no one is going to notice what we have to tell you. We, the three of us, we’re staging a coup this afternoon.” 

“A what?” Steve barely managed to put his coffee cup down without dropping it. 

“Look, you don’t know him all that well, and you haven’t seen his best side, but John McGee is a good man,” King said. “The thing is, he’s chin deep in Senator Brandt’s pocket, with all the government money he’s getting for this show, and we’ve been thinking that he might be a little too taken with Brandt’s ideas.” 

“Which are impossible,” Eli added. “Brandt wants a particular type of act, and he wants you to star in this particular type of act, and he wants it with a six-week rehearsal period. You’re smart enough to know how that’s been working out.” 

Steve stirred his puréed squash. “I’m not good enough,” he said. 

King shook his head. “That’s not it. Think of it like this. It’s like asking a carpenter to build you something fast, good, and cheap. You can only have two out of those three options. Well, Brandt wants three things, too. He wants a professional production number, he wants you, and he wants six weeks. He can only have two of those things, but he, and McGee, refuse to admit it.” 

“Steve, I know you’ve been unhappy about the dancing,” Miss Fisher said. Steve must have looked startled, because she smiled at him. “Mildred told me. She’s a bit concerned about you. You have a good sense of rhythm, and you have more musicality than you think. We’ve been asking you to do skilled, professional-level work that you’ve never been trained for. If I had a year, I could teach you to do some of those dances just like the girls. King and Eli feel the same way. But we don’t have that year.” 

“We have the six weeks, or at least, the remainder of them,” Eli said. “Opening night is already booked. And we have you. You’re written into the contract. We’re going to have to change the act.”

King smiled. “You haven’t failed, Steve. You’ve worked hard and made immense progress. We like you, and we want to see this thing work. That means we have to convince McGee to change the act around to show you off, not whatever imaginary soldier he and Brandt think they’ve cast. We’re going to re-jigger this thing to show what you can do, rather than what you can’t.” 

Steve’s shoulders felt as if he had sprouted wings. He took a deep breath and ate a few bites of squash. It tasted sweeter than it had a moment ago. “So, what do you think I can do?” he asked. 

Miss Fisher took a deep breath and exchanged troubled glances with King and Eli. “The first thing you can do,” she said softly, “is tell us what happened to you.” 

The squash in Steve’s mouth was suddenly cloyingly sweet, but he choked it down anyway. “What do you mean?” 

“We know that you came to us from some sort of special medical program,” Miss Fisher said. “That’s what we were told about you. But there’s more than that. I make a living watching people move, and you don’t move like anyone else I’ve ever seen.” 

“Told you I couldn’t dance.” 

She shook her head. “It’s not that. Your balance is shaky, you don’t have good control over your arms and legs, and you walk like you can’t feel anything below your knees.” 

“I noticed it in your breathing,” King said. “Two weeks ago, you were terrified of taking a deep breath. You’d had asthma, and then, all of a sudden, you didn’t. Hadn’t quite sunk in yet. I don’t know much about asthma, but I don’t think it normally clears up that fast.” 

Steve glanced at Eli. Eli said nothing aloud, but his pointed nod and raised eyebrows made his opinion abundantly clear. Steve leaned back in his seat and started to rip his dinner roll into small chunks. 

“I don’t know how much I can tell you,” he offered. “There’s a lot that I don’t know, and most of what I do know is classified.” 

“Then let us begin for you,” Miss Fisher suggested. “My guess is that before you were in the program, you were shorter, and your shoulders were narrower.”

Steve couldn’t help smiling at that. “You’d have laughed to see a picture of me. How’d you know?” 

Miss Fisher returned the smile. “You’re top-heavy,” she said. “You don’t have a good sense of how to balance your torso, and you have no real idea of how long your body is, so you overbalance. That’s why you fall down so much, especially when you try to spin.” 

“I thought that was just because I got dizzy.” 

“You don’t know your own strength, either,” Eli put in. “That first day working with Charlie? You looked stunned to hell and back that you’d actually hit him.” 

Steve tried to cover his blush with a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Charlie’s a good guy. I was trying to do the punch right, like you were teaching me.” 

“I know. But tell the truth. How many punches have you ever thrown in your life that connected as well as that one did?” 

“Not many. Bucky – my friend Bucky tried to teach me to fight. But all the other guys were so much bigger than me, I got beat up a lot anyway.” 

Eli nodded. “Figures. Then you went into the army, and they taught you to fight for real, and now I have to teach you how to pull your punches, and do it artistically.” 

“It’s a hard-knock life, Eli,” King said, grinning broadly. “So, Steve. In the span of what, a few weeks? A few days? You went from a sanatorium case to what you are now.” 

“Pretty much.” Now that he had opened his mouth, Steve found that he needed to tell someone about the confusion and anxiety that had lived in his stomach from the moment he had stood over a dead HYDRA agent and a broken serum vial at the pier. “The world still looks weird. I’m ten inches taller than I used to be, and things look different from up here. I move my arm, and it’s this tree branch that doesn’t feel like me. Just walking down the street felt like I was living in a shell.” He turned to Eli. “Your lessons really helped me. I don’t think I’ve thanked you yet.” 

“Well, save your breath,” Eli said. “We’re nowhere near done with you.” 

Steve raised his eyebrows and popped a shred of roll into his mouth. 

Miss Fisher smiled. “Dancing teachers aren’t just good for showing you step routines,” she said. “You’ve been given a lovely new body, and we’ll help you learn how to use it. You tell us what you can do, and we’ll work with that. I’ll work with you on movement, King will help you with breathing and voice, and Eli will help you put your mind and your body together. All you have to do is eat your lunch and tell us what you do best.” 

Steve shrugged. “I think I’m pretty strong now,” he said. “And I can draw.” 

King leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “Good. That’s a start.” 

“Yes,” Eli said, with a thoughtful smile on his face. “We’re due for a production meeting in twenty minutes.” He pulled a mimeographed copy of the Captain America costume design from his briefcase. “While we’re in there, see what you can do to improve that.” 

Steve smiled and took a long swallow of coffee.

  

 

In the studio for the afternoon, McGee announced to the cast that there would be a change in the day’s plan to accommodate an unscheduled production meeting. The cast was on break, but had to remain in the building. Most of the performers headed for the canteen to relax and socialize. Steve took his notebook and pencil and the Captain America costume mimeograph to the dance studio, where he could spread his work out a little bit. He sat down, took out the mimeograph, and felt a broad grin spread itself over his face at the thought of the havoc he was about to wreak on the overdesigned eyesore. 

Steve’s clear first choice was to remove the cape. It was a menace on the stage, and Steve had never liked the idea of singing and dancing while literally wrapped in the flag. Beneath the cape, the lines of the tights appeared sleek and graceful, so he decided to keep the tights, at least until something better came to his mind. He even replaced the squat ankle boots with something that looked more like a practical combat boot, and he took the wings off of the gloves. 

He was considering what to do about the top hat when the door opened, and Helen, Dottie, and Mildred entered the studio. Steve scrambled to his feet, sending papers flying. 

“Oh, Steve, we didn’t know you were in here,” Helen said. 

“Some of the girls were wondering where you’d gone,” Mildred added. 

Steve smiled. “I had some drawing to do. Figured I’d come here while all of you were busy in the canteen. Do you need the studio? I can go next door.” 

“Nah, Dottie was just going to show us a few tricks,” Mildred said. “We’re bored stiff down in the canteen. Wonder what they’re doing in that meeting.” 

“What are you doing?” Helen asked. “You drawing again?” 

“Um, yes.” Steve gathered the scattered sketches together. “Just . . . trying out some improvements on my costume.” 

“Nice to be able to draw,” Dottie said. “Wish I could have done that for some of the dresses I’ve had to wear.” 

“Can we see?” Mildred asked. 

“Sure.” Steve showed them the original Captain America design, and was pleased when they burst out laughing at its absurdity. 

“Well, don’t that just beat all!” Dottie cried. 

Helen wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “That’s worse than that hoochie-coochie outfit I had to wear when I danced in the chorus for Dainty Delilah and her Dusky Desert Damsels.” 

“I’ve been working on it,” Steve said. He showed them the sketch he had been making. “I took off the cape, and I slimmed down the boots and the gloves.” 

“Good idea,” Helen said. 

“I’m not sure what to do about the hat, though,” Steve said. “Without the cape, it’s too much, but going bareheaded doesn’t feel right. I was thinking maybe a garrison cap.” 

Mildred pursed her lips in thought for a moment. “We’re going to be wearing those,” she offered. “It’s a nice thought, that you’d match us, but it wouldn’t work with the tights.” 

“You can put that hat over a dancing dress on a girl,” Helen explained, “but on a man, it’d look odd without the rest of the army uniform. What about a mask?” 

Steve drew a small domino mask over the eyes of the figure in one of his costume sketches and shaded it gently with the side of the pencil. Dottie looked at it and chewed on her lip. 

“That looks almost like a comic strip character now,” she said. “Kind of futuristic, like Buck Rogers, maybe.” 

The mention of Buck Rogers gave Steve an idea. He extended the domino mask into a close-fitting cap that looked a little bit like Buck Rogers’s space helmet but also evoked the flight caps that the Army Air Forces pilots wore. He showed it to Helen, Dottie, and Mildred, and they all nodded and exclaimed their approval.

“That’s good,” Mildred said. “That goes with the tights.” 

“Speaking of which,” Helen put in, “take out the stripes on the legs.” 

Steve considered the suggestion. “You think? I could take off the stars, but the stripes are kind of classy. Like dress pants.” 

Helen shook her head. “Stripes are fine on pants, but not on tights. You have no idea how hard it is to get your seams straight, and those stripes will be almost impossible. Keep them plain and count your blessings.” 

If there was one thing that Steve had learned from living in a boarding house with most of a troupe of chorus girls, it was never to argue with a dancer on the subject of tights. He rubbed out the stripes, and sat down on the floor again. Helen, Dottie, and Mildred sat down next to him, and the four of them whiled away their idle time drawing, laughing, and mocking the tattered state of the show.

  

 

The clock on the wall showed that it was about forty minutes later when the door to the dance studio opened. Steve, Helen, Dottie, and Mildred scrambled to their feet as the rest of the performers filed in. Charlie Rudnik came in at the tail end of the line, making eyes at a dancer whose name, Steve remembered vaguely, was Bernice. Both of them seemed to be walking with much more bounce and energy than the rest of the troupe. Eli, King, and Miss Fisher followed the performers. Steve held out his new design to Eli, who smiled and shook his head, mouthing, “Later.” 

Finally, John McGee walked in, looking exhausted. He moved to stand by the piano, and plastered an optimistic smile across his face. 

“Thank you all for waiting so patiently,” he said. “Contrary to popular belief, the show will go on.” This elicited a polite laugh. McGee nodded, and held up his hand. “However,” he went on, “we’re going to be making some changes. Don’t worry, you all still have jobs. But you’re going to have to work hard to get the show ready for opening. We’ve still got a little bit of planning to do today, so most of you are off for the afternoon. Steve Rogers, Charles Rudnik, Anne Wilkes, Bernice Levin, and Mildred Hazelhorn, please stay behind. The rest of you, go out and enjoy your afternoon off.” 

The dancers left the room. Helen and Dottie were the last to leave, whispering to Mildred to tell them everything that happened. Steve smiled at them, and turned to face McGee. 

“So, Rogers,” McGee said. “They say you’re pretty strong.” 

Steve shrugged. “I think so. Can’t dance worth a nickel, though.” He nodded at Miss Fisher. “Not for lack of teaching, I can tell you that.” 

McGee nodded. “Well, we’ll see what we can do. Got a guy coming in this evening. In the meantime, why don’t you show us something? How about you put that table up over your head?” He pointed at the table where the record player sat. 

Steve sucked in a breath. If he couldn’t lift the table, or even if he could, but bobbled it just a little, the record player would fall off. Even with his Army pay, Steve had no wish to be responsible for such an expensive piece of equipment. 

Fortunately, Miss Fisher saw where his gaze landed. She waved to Annie, and the two of them lifted the record player off of the table and set it on the piano bench. Steve nodded his thanks, and stepped forward. With two quick motions, he lifted the table off the floor and raised it above his head. 

McGee nodded. “Good. All right, hold that pose. See if you can keep it until we tell you to put it down.” 

He hurried to King’s side, and King produced the master copy of the “Star-Spangled Man” song. McGee and King huddled over the sheet music, counting and singing quietly to each other. Steve’s arms ached a little from the unaccustomed position, but he felt no strain from the weight of the table. 

“Two, two, three, four. Three, two, three, four. And four, two, three, four,” King counted. McGee looked up. 

“And, table down.” 

Steve set the table back on the floor and rolled his shoulders. McGee looked at him with an appraising eye. 

“How do you feel?” he asked. 

“Fine. Not used to holding my arms up like that, but it’s not hard.” 

A slow smile spread across McGee’s face. “Excellent. Then let’s make it a bit more challenging.” 

For the next attempt, Steve lifted the table with a chair on top of it. The chair wobbled and slid a little, but Miss Fisher and Eli came to his side and murmured soft instructions about how to hold and balance his body, and the chair stopped sliding. Under their instruction, Steve lifted the table with the chair a few more times until he could do it cleanly, if not with perfect smoothness. 

“Still not at your limit?” McGee asked. 

“No, sir.” 

“Good. Then let’s try . . .” McGee’s eyes roved over the three dancers. “Let’s see. Annie, stand back to back with Mildred. Now with Bernice. All right. Bernice, you’re the smallest. Think you can get up in that chair?” 

“No!” Steve said. McGee raised his eyebrows, and Steve blushed. “What if the chair slides? I don’t want to tip her off onto the floor.” 

Miss Fisher nodded. “He’s got a point. I’m going to work with him, and I think he’ll be ready for the show, but his balance isn’t what it ought to be yet.” 

McGee chewed his lip in thought for a moment. “All right,” he said. “Let’s try this. Steve, lift the table and the chair. When you’ve got that balanced, say, ‘Ready.’ Annie, Mildred, you help Bernice climb up onto the table. Use the piano if you have to. It’s a cheap piece anyway. Steve, hold it as long as you can while we count. If you feel like you’re going to drop, give a shout so that Bernice can get down. Charlie, you and King and Eli will help spot. Got it? Go.” 

Steve lifted the table and the chair. Miss Fisher and Eli helped him to adjust until he found a comfortable position. “Think about the tree we talked about,” Eli said. “Feel your strong trunk, and the roots growing deep into the earth.” 

Steve nodded. “Ready.” 

There were a few moments of wobbling and weight and strange balance, and for a moment, Steve was terrified that he was about to send Bernice crashing to the floor. But then the tension and uncertainty evened out, and Steve found himself once more supporting an even surface. It was heavier than before, but he found that, finally, his new body was able to meet this challenge. He gritted his teeth and concentrated, barely noticing King counting steady beats. 

“You’re doing just fine, Steve,” Charlie said softly. 

“And Bernice comes down,” McGee called. 

The table wobbled in Steve’s hands again, and then it was lighter, and Bernice was on the floor smiling. 

“And, table down.” 

Steve set the table and chair back on the floor and wiped sweat from his forehead. He found that his hand was shaking, though, he suspected, as much from nerves as from the physical effort. 

The performers and coaches were laughing and applauding. Mildred patted Steve’s shoulder, King clapped him on the back, and Charlie ruffled his hair. 

“What did we tell you?” Eli said to McGee. “You work with what you have, and you see what you’ve got.” 

“I’m not too proud to admit it, Cramer,” McGee said. “You were right. We’ll do it your way. A strongman act it is. I’ll wire the circus tonight, see if we can get Kerensky on the next train. Johnny North owes me a favor, and I think it’s time to collect.”

 

 

 


	5. The Roar Of The Greasepaint

**5\. The Roar Of The Greasepaint**

  

 

Once John McGee had accepted the change in plans for the show, he moved with an efficiency that Steve suspected would have impressed any of the sergeants in basic training. In fact, he was sure it would have done so, because McGee had managed to command the services of Michael Taggart, a retired Army drill instructor who, McGee claimed, had trained Busby Berkeley and had mentored him as a choreographer. 

“I knew Buzz,” Taggart said. “Good soldier, and he does damn fine work with his dancers.” That was all that he would say about Berkeley. Taggart was much more interested in the troupe that Miss Fisher had trained. He had arrived directly from Grand Central Station bearing a sheaf of notes. Miss Fisher barely had time to greet him before he asked to see the chorus run through the finale as it stood. He took even more notes in a tiny, meticulous hand, and then called for Steve. Steve was terrified of the prospect of dancing for Taggart, but his fear melted away upon meeting the man. 

“Got your records from basic here,” Taggart said. “Your sergeant claims you were pretty good at drill. Stand in the center and show me what you’ve got.”

Steve stood at attention in the middle of the floor. Taggart rattled off a series of commands, and Steve did his best to keep up. Taggart started with marching commands, and then sent Annie down to the prop room to find a rifle to test Steve on rifle drill. By the time Taggart barked out “As you were,” Steve’s heart was racing just a little from the thrill of once again being able to feel at least vaguely connected to the Army. 

“All right,” Taggart said. “I’ve got some ideas here. Miss Fisher, is there a quiet place where we can work together for an hour or two?” 

“Right this way,” Miss Fisher said. “Ladies, Steve, take a break, but don’t go too far.” She and Taggart left the studio, and the dancers immediately relaxed and began to chat.

“That was amazing,” Dottie said to Steve. “Who knew you could do all that?” 

“I think you’ve been holding out on us, hon,” Helen added with a wink. 

Steve smiled and shook his head. “I can drill just fine,” he said. “It’s just walking, really. I could never do what you do. Every day I’m impressed just watching you learn it.” 

“Flatterer,” Dottie said happily. 

 

 

The next new arrival turned out to be Anton Kerensky, a professional strongman on loan from none other than the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Combined Shows. Kerensky was an enormous man whose head was shaved bald, but whose mustache was luxurious enough to make it look as though his hair had simply migrated from the top of his head to the middle of his face. He took one look at Steve and emitted a deep, delighted belly laugh. “This,” he boomed, “this young man I can work with. This one will turn ladies’ heads and make gentlemen weep with envy.” 

McGee assembled Steve, Eli, Charlie, Miss Fisher, and Bernice, and had them demonstrate their trick with Bernice, the chair, and the table for Kerensky. Steve held the pose for a full minute before McGee called for Bernice to climb down. After Eli and Charlie retrieved the chair and Bernice and Miss Fisher helped Steve guide the table down to the ground, Kerensky nodded thoughtfully. 

“He is strong, yes,” he said to McGee. “This is good. Strong, but untrained. I will take care of that. First, you will find him proper belt.” 

Steve glanced down at his waist, where he had belted his shorts with a white cloth belt that the Army had issued him. “I don’t understand. Won’t this work?” 

Kerensky shook his head. “No. You will wear proper leather belt to support back while you lift.” 

McGee harrumphed delicately. “Well, Anton, that might be a problem. The costume design –“ 

“Is not for looks, is for safety,” Kerensky said. “This belt can be any color you like, to match with his costume. He will wear it.” 

“I was given to understand that the medical treatment he received would increase his strength.” 

“So? It worked. He is now strong. But where are his limits? Do your medical papers tell you?” 

McGee glanced at Steve. Steve shrugged. “They didn’t tell me all that much,” he said. “Doctor Erskine told me about muscle mass and something about changing my cells to make me heal faster. He didn’t have much to say about limits.” 

“You see?” Kerensky said. “If you heal, you can be injured. Tell me, McGee, in which Godforsaken small town on tour do you wish to discover what will break Captain America’s back?” 

Steve nodded. “I’ll take the belt. The costume is going to be re-designed anyway, right? We could work it in. Paint it red, white, and blue if you have to.”

McGee smiled and shook his head. “All right, we’ll get the belt. You’ll need two, one for rehearsal and one for the costume. Any tips on how to get these belts, Anton?” 

“We will talk later,” Kerensky said. “For now, he will wear my belt.” He turned to Steve and handed him a card with an address on it. “I will train you in this gymnasium. You will come to me at nine each morning, dressed as you are now.” 

“Yes, sir.” Steve found himself unable to suppress an enormous smile of excitement at finally feeling competent at something physical. 

 

 

Although Steve had been a little worried that rebuilding the show from the ground up would lead to panic and shortened tempers, he was delighted to discover that the opposite was true. Both the performers and the production team attacked the challenge with joyful energy. The rehearsals seemed to flow much more quickly than they had before, even though everyone’s schedule was packed with many more separate activities. 

Steve’s mornings now began at a run-down gymnasium in Hell’s Kitchen. For an hour, Anton Kerensky stood over him and bellowed encouragement as Steve lifted increasingly heavy barbells. Steve was vaguely aware that other patrons would sometimes stop what they were doing to stare, but Kerensky never allowed him to look at them. “Concentrate, Steven,” he rumbled. “You must bring everything to one point, one line. You are made of steel, of rock, you connect weight to earth, earth to weight. There is nothing else. Only that you hold it, strong and steady like Mother Earth.” 

Steve had not expected that so much of his training with Kerensky would consist of mental exercise as well as physical exercise. Kerensky laughed when he mentioned that thought. “Is not enough to have. You must learn to use. Why else must a soldier be trained?” 

Steve rolled his shoulders and squatted down to grip the barbell again. “Never thought of it that way. All the other soldiers in my training squad were so much bigger than me.” 

“Muscles, you have now. I teach you to think. Perhaps I can make arrangements with McGee. Your show will come to me in Sarasota in winter, and I will teach you more. Now, show me squat clean again.” 

After Kerensky had finished with him, Steve would sponge himself off just enough so that he would not smell too offensive on the streetcar. It was a short ride back to the rehearsal building, where he spent an hour working with Eli. Part of the lesson still consisted of Eli doggedly attempting to teach Steve to act Captain America’s script. But Eli also made time for Steve to walk, run, jump, and climb on the furniture. It was like being a kid all over again, learning to experience the world by playing with it, and Steve adored the moments when Eli joined in the play, smiling what Steve guessed was the same smile he had worn as a five-year-old. 

King would join them after an hour. Two days after beginning the new rehearsal schedule, he had taken Steve aside. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but we’re dropping your singing part.” 

“Really?” Steve frowned. He’d just been feeling more confident about singing into the large, empty space of the Belmont. “I thought I was doing all right.” 

“Oh, you were,” King said. “It’s not that. Eli and I went over your lines, and we had a thought. The scriptwriter . . . well, he’s no Eugene O’Neill, if you catch my drift. That Tin Pan Alley punk has a much better way with words. He’s rewriting the song, with your solo verses cut. We’re taking those words, and we’ll put them into the spoken script instead. You’ll still get to do them, just not in song.” King’s eyes twinkled. “But don’t think for a second that I won’t want you thinking about the music and rhythm behind them, even if you’re speaking. You’re not rid of me yet!”

Steve laughed, secretly relieved that he would not have to give up working with King, a man who never failed to raise his spirits. So King and Eli worked together, teaching Steve the rudiments of an art that they called “elocution,” and that Steve suspected that Bucky would have referred to as “speechifying.” Once Steve grasped what they wanted him to do, it made sense. Captain America was supposed to inspire as much as advertise. 

“Each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun,” Eli said. “You got any buddies serving on the front lines?”

Steve nodded. “I do.” For a moment, he had a horrible image of Bucky, torn apart and tossed into the air by a shell, lying limp and broken, sprawled in the mud, unable to do much more than watch as his life bled into the ground. He shivered, and choked back a wave of nausea. 

Eli’s hand on his shoulder shook him back to reality. “Yeah. You do. I can see it.” A grimace of pained sympathy flickered across his face. “Let the audience see it. Ask them to save your friend’s life. But only using those words.” 

“They’ll know, Steve,” King added. “Every one of them has a soldier they care about. They’ll get it.” 

For the final hour of the morning, just before lunch, Steve worked in the dance studio with Miss Fisher. She made no pretense of teaching him anything about dancing any more. Instead, she led him through sets of slow, controlled exercises, corrected his posture and the alignment of his head, neck, and spine, and made him perform numerous small activities designed to improve his balance. Miss Fisher had also noticed Steve’s discomfort with mirrors. She made sure to incorporate an encounter with the mirror into each of their lessons, standing at Steve’s side as he began to reconcile the image that he saw in the mirror with the body he was learning to inhabit. 

 

 

With Michael Taggart’s help, Miss Fisher had reworked the finale dance to feature a great deal of precision marching, with lines of dancers weaving in and around each other. Sometimes, Steve marched at the head of one line; more often, he was asked to march in a pattern of his own that interlocked with the patterns that the rest of the dancers created. 

“Do you miss doing all the high kicks and fancy footwork?” Steve asked Helen during a shopping expedition on their day off. 

“Miss kicking and stepping?” Helen laughed. “We’ve still got plenty in the finale, in case you haven’t been paying attention. I like all that marching and the patterns. Kind of classy, you know?” 

“Hadn’t thought about it that way.” 

Helen looked thoughtfully at a display of white kid gloves. “Anyway, there’s the opening number, too. Plenty of flash left in that one. What time is it?” 

Steve glanced at his watch. “Almost three.” 

“Oh, we’d better shake a leg. I told Mildred and Dottie to meet us over at the makeup counter at three.” 

“Need a new lipstick?” Steve asked, wondering if they would get back to the boarding house in time for him to catch the last inning of the Dodgers game. 

“No,” Helen said. “You do.” At Steve’s stunned look, she burst out laughing. “Well, what did you think? You have to have something, or you’ll look like a ghost under the lights. Come on. We’ll get you some Max Factor, and then we’ll show you how to put it on.” 

Steve sighed. It looked as though he would have to miss hearing the Dodgers game entirely. But with any luck, they might make it back in time for _The Goldbergs_.

 

 

After a fortnight of rehearsal so intense that it made basic training seem like a resort camp, the show moved permanently into the Belmont for the final week of technical work. Madge revealed the costumes that she and her girls had been sewing. Steve liked the dresses that the dancers wore. The clean lines of the skirts and the halter tops allowed the stars-and-stripes motif to stand out without overwhelming the eye, and the garrison-style caps looked smart and jaunty at the same time. 

He was slightly less happy about his own costume. The new design had incorporated some of his suggestions, so it was not nearly as bad as it could have been. But the two stars he had drawn on the shoulders to evoke rank epaulets had been dropped, and the remaining star in the middle of his chest had become larger. The Buck Rogers flight cap had somehow been turned into a hood that covered the top half of his face and featured a large “A” on his forehead and small wings sticking out on each side. And the boots were long, folded things that resembled an illustration from Robin Hood rather than dyed combat boots. At least the bright red briefs had been dyed blue to match the tights. Steve had hoped that the briefs might be thick enough to allow him to wear plain underwear rather than the dance belt, but Madge shook her head sympathetically. 

“It’s not just for support, and it’s not just for reducing awkward wrinkles,” she said. “There’s – how do I put this delicately? – there are visual lines having to do with the front of the costume, and . . .” She trailed off as Steve gaped at her, hoping that she was not saying what he feared she was saying. 

“They don’t want you to bulge too much in front of the kiddies,” Madge clarified, gesturing to Steve’s crotch as Steve’s face burned with embarrassment. 

Charlie Rudnik laughed when he heard about that conversation. “I’ve had to wear those,” he said. “They’re no picnic, but what can you do? At least you’re not going out there looking like a pale imitation of Chaplin dressed up as Der Fuehrer.”

Steve smiled, and Charlie poured him a glass of the bourbon he was drinking. It burned going down, and made Steve cough, but he could taste something dark and mossy and living lurking in the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure that he liked the taste enough to become a bourbon man without benefit of the alcohol, but he appreciated the new experience and the thought behind Charlie’s gesture in giving it to him.

 

 

The details of Steve’s strongman act only came together during tech week. McGee, Miss Fisher, and Kerensky had discussed Steve’s lifting power and his balancing skills in great detail, and they ran tests involving Annie, Bernice, Mildred, and a large bench. McGee sent assistants scurrying away to telephone various prop houses in the city, and sat down himself with the show’s budget sheets. Finally, he came to a decision. At the very end of the finale, Steve was to hold aloft a prop motorcycle with all three girls on it. Steve was fairly sure that he could manage to lift a real motorcycle, but McGee laughed and shook his head. 

“Your back might be able to take it, but our budget couldn’t,” he said. “Between the motorcycle and the insurance, we’d have to sell out three Broadway theaters every night to afford it. The prop bike is cheaper, and it’ll look better anyway.” 

Miss Fisher put her foot down and refused to allow Steve to lift the motorcycle on stage. “Your balance isn’t good enough for that yet,” she said. “I’ve seen the way you lift. I’m sure you could get the thing over your head, but I’m not sure that you’d do it without either tossing the girls off or overbalancing yourself. I’ll keep working with you, and we’ll find lifting coaches while we tour. If you get better at it, we can always redo the choreography. But we need to find another solution for opening night.” 

Kerensky, who had spent several years performing alongside circus acrobats, came up with the solution. Annie, Bernice, and Mildred would mount the motorcycle on the ground, where it would be hooked up to wires and flown up so that Steve could catch it and hold it aloft. McGee nodded thoughtfully at Kerensky’s proposal. 

“I like it. The magic of the theater becomes reality. We can cover the wires with stars as well, really make it show when they fall away and Steve’s holding the setup on his own.”

  

 

The trick took a few evenings of extra rehearsals, but it was ready in time for the dress rehearsal. That evening was a flurry of activity and last-minute crises, which only intensified at the news that Senator Brandt would be coming to watch. The dancers ran this way and that, making sure that their costumes were perfect and that every piece was in its place. The variety performers crowded into the theater, filling up the dressing rooms, getting lost, and arguing over the order of performance. Dr. J. B. Dogget’s Pedigreed Pooches yapped excitedly and sent Miss Fisher out into the alleyway coughing and sneezing. Eli, Madge, and the costume designer were still arguing over the last touches for Steve’s costume. 

“He’s a captain, right?” the costume designer said. “A soldier. Soldiers carry guns. Let him carry that prop rifle.” 

“He’s an inspiration,” Eli shot back. “Who’s going to be inspired to buy war bonds by a man pointing a gun at them?” 

“So he won’t point it at them. He marches around, right? He can hold it then.” 

Madge harrumphed. “And just where do you think I’m going to get a prop rifle and have it painted to match his tights by curtain?” she asked. 

Steve caught the middle of the argument as he searched for a relatively quiet corner where he could go over his lines and make sure that he knew them. He was just trying to remember what came after “We can’t do that without bullets and bandages, tanks and tents,” when he noticed the other three staring at him. 

“Sorry,” he said, raising his hands. “I’ll go find somewhere else.” 

“No,” Madge said. “Wait here.” She disappeared into the prop room and emerged a moment later carrying a gaudily decorated knight’s shield. “Look!” she said. “Soldiers don’t just attack. They defend.” 

The costume designer nodded. “I see. It could work. We could paint it to match the outfit, too.” 

Eli took the shield from Madge and hooked his arm through the straps. “Perfect place for cue cards,” he said. He caught Steve blushing and smiled. “Don’t worry about it. Lionel Barrymore himself has been known to dry up on occasion.” He turned to Madge and the costume designer. “The faster we get this painted, the faster it’ll be ready for tonight.” 

 

 

It was nearly time for the curtain to rise for opening night. Steve sat alone in his dressing room, half afraid to move his face. Dottie and Mildred had sat with him for a few minutes, rubbing on baby oil and foundation, brushing mascara onto his eyelashes, painting him with lipstick, rouge, and eyeliner, and finally covering his face with a thin layer of powder. The makeup felt strange on Steve’s face, almost itchy, but he was certainly not about to raise a hand to relieve the itch. Even beneath the hood, his features stood out in unaccustomed relief on his face, and Steve had to trust his friends’ word that it would look all right underneath the stage lights.

He heard a burst of music and knew that the opening dance number had just taken the stage. Helen had a flashy tap dance solo in that one, and he wished that he could see it from the audience, and be able to watch everyone else admiring her skill as much as he did. At least it would have been something to do, rather than sit in a dressing room waiting to be called, terrified to move lest he crack the layers of paint smeared on his face. 

Steve’s dressing table contained a bouquet of flowers that Eli, King, and Miss Fisher had given him, claiming that the star of the show should have flowers on opening night. There was also a copy of the program and a small velvet box containing Captain’s bars. Senator Brandt had been pleased at the dress rehearsal and had called everyone together after the run-through to declare that Steve had passed basic training with flying colors. He had commissioned Captain Steven G. Rogers, U.S. Army, right there on the stage, and Steve had never wanted to punch anyone for real as much as in that moment. 

Tonight, though, Senator Brandt was not around, and Steve found himself bored to tears rather than angry. The flowers on his dressing table were lovely, but he would have traded them away in a heartbeat for a newspaper or a deck of cards. He wished that he had thought to bring his sketching notebook to the theater, but that would have to wait for the next show. In the meantime, he ventured to open the drawers of the dressing table. Someone had left a pen and a few sheets of ruled paper. Steve didn’t particularly like drawing on ruled paper, but the thought struck him that he hadn’t had time to write to Bucky in weeks. 

He pulled the pen and paper out of the drawer, and thought for a while, trying to think of how to explain to Bucky everything that had happened to him since he had stepped into Dr. Erskine’s laboratory. Slowly, with many long pauses for reflection, the words began to fill the paper. 

_Dear Bucky,  
_

_So much has happened since I last wrote that I don’t know where to begin. Or how much I’m allowed to tell you anyway. I think I can tell you that I got some good medical treatment, and you most likely won’t have to worry about me getting sick any more. I’ve been making some interesting new friends and picking up the strangest set of skills, and you won’t believe the job they have me doing. Seems I’ve been recruited to_

The call boy knocked on the dressing room door. “Captain America, five minutes to entrance, please.” 

Steve put down the letter. He picked up his shield, checked to make sure that his lines were taped on in the right order, and followed the call boy out of the dressing room and up the stairs to the stage. 

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story! I’ve certainly had fun imagining how such a gloriously weird production number came to be. I found myself intrigued by the final image of the show, in which Steve holds up the motorcycle with the dancers on it, and I had some interesting ideas and conversations about how a strong but completely untrained man might get into that position. Even Louis Cyr might have found the balance difficult, I think. Unfortunately, I also suspect that Steve never did finish writing that letter to Bucky.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you next time!


End file.
